I’ve been pondering the most suitable poem to open this year’s selection all month. January calls for inspiration, motivation to persevere with New Year’s Resolutions, hope and promise to see us through what is for many, the darkest month of the year. But I like January.

On Saturday I bid a fond farewell to my twenties with a jam-packed, boozy day full of food and surrounded by good friends. On Sunday morning I woke up, miraculously hangover-free, and heralded in my thirties with more food, the same bunch of pals and a bloody huge Happy Birthday balloon which had to be manoeuvred home on the windiest day of 2019 so far.

This year I knew no fewer than three newly wed couples who were jetting off to sunnier, or at least different, climes for the Christmas festivities, and while I can understand the desire to getaway and make the most of the annual leave, for me, Christmas begins at home.

The last push for the Good Reads challenge saw me overtake my 35 book target and rattle through another couple of reads during the festive period. Of course, having so much time to kill in departures and on flights has aided that. My desk today is from a cosy corner in Malta, looking out on a blue sky, white-capped waves and sunshine on sandstone rooftops. Not a bad way to ease back into things.

On Friday morning I jolted awake at 5.45am, startled by a door slamming behind me in my dream. Unable to get back to sleep and irritated by a new clicking in the rotation of my ankle, I started to think about my body and how it’s held up in what has been its thirtieth year on this earth.

With long nights stretching into winter chill, you might imagine I’d have had more time on my hands to curl up with a book, but somehow no. I have been dipping in and out of several different reads, and excitedly, began my first chronological read of Nigel Slater’s The Christmas Chronicles which will see me through until Spring, but it’s all been rather slow, leisurely reading – which, considering the breakneck pace of life recently, is perhaps a blessing in disguise.

Scotch has never really been my cup of tea. It doesn’t exactly come naturally, being Irish. When I do pick up a bottle of whiskey, which generally only happens when the weather turns and there’s a threat of flu on the horizon, it’s always Jameson. And even then, it’s hot, with ginger or not at all.

What a month. National Poetry Day. Bookshop Day. October is clearly a month dedicated to bookworms which is perhaps how I managed to devote so much time to reading when I appeared to have so little time on my hands.

September was an odd, emotional month with a family funeral, a spectacular wedding and some long overdue quality time with friends and family. As for reading, a little geography, a little history, a little close to home.

Because I’m trying to get back into the habit of tramping the keyboards, and because I’ve spent a luxurious few hours this afternoon mulling over The Guardian’s Weekend section and fallen even more in love with Emilia Fox in her Q&A, I’ve decided to have a go myself. A quick, snappy writing prompt and a little how do you do to get us back in acquaintance.

A side note – this was much harder and took a lot longer than I’d imagined it would.

I have fallen behind on writing up my monthly reads what with all the good Summer weather, the weddings and general life getting in the way, so I’m going to dissect August’s Reads with maximum efficiency.